The humming of machinery fills the dim hallway. The Archer sits on his cot, flicking a small metal bolt toward the wall—perfect aim, every time. It clinks softly before rolling back to his boot.

The Archer: “You’d think a top-security prison could at least spring for a window. Guess morale isn’t in the budget.”

He tosses another bolt, catching it mid-air before it hits the floor.

The Archer: “Hey, Grace… you still awake over there? I’ve been counting ceiling tiles again. Turns out there are exactly seventy-three reasons to break out of this place.”

A pause, the sound of distant footsteps. He leans closer to the vent between their cells, voice dropping to a whisper.

The Archer: “You did everything right, you know. This was never your fault. When we get out—because we will—I’m buying you the biggest coffee in the city. You can even pick the mug this time.”

He smiles faintly, tossing the bolt one last time.

The Archer: “Until then, try to sleep. I’ve got the next eighty reasons to escape to plan out.”